


half a glass

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, predebut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>yixing wonders if wu fan likes it and the washroom is small. deliberately misleading summary is misleading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	half a glass

There’s a sliver of light from under the door when Yixing’s eyes crack open, blankets still pulled up to his chin. The door itself is closed, and the room is silent with breathing set regular with sleep, so Yixing lets his eyes slip shut again. His throat is uncomfortably dry, but it’s late. It must be late, it had been past midnight by the time they’d stumbled back home, taking turns curling comatose on the sofa and showers in the washroom.

When Yixing opens his eyes, the light is still there. He sits up, pushing aside the blankets and padding his quiet way to the door. The living room is empty—he shuts the door behind him and walks to the bathroom instead.

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Ge.”

Wu Fan smiles at him when he walks into view, meeting his eyes in the bathroom mirror. Yixing stands in the doorway, bare feet just edging the tiles where the living room floor ends.

“I woke up,” Yixing says. “I was thirsty.”

Wu Fan chuckles. “The kitchen is over there,” he says, inclining his head backwards. Yixing makes a face, reaching out to shove at Wu Fan’s shoulder. 

“Ge,” he whines. “I know. But you’re here.” 

“Where else would I be?”

“In bed?” 

“True, I suppose.”

Through the mirror, the two of them stared at the other, each quietly observing the way their eyes flickered from corner to corner, Yixing’s fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, Wu Fan leaning back against the washroom wall with his arms crossed across his chest, until Yixing opens his mouth to speak: “You don’t like it?” 

“Don’t like what?” Wu Fan smiles, feigning confusion at the same time his fingers creep upwards to brush through dyed blond hair, strands catching at the spaces between. When Yixing rolls his eyes, he laughs. “What about you? Do you?”

“What does it matter if I like it or not?” Yixing asks, surprised. Wu Fan just stares back, the same soft smile dancing lightly across his features. Yixing shrugs. “It’s not like it’s my hair.”

“Hm? So I can’t ask your opinion?”

Yixing combs through his own hair self-consciously, raking bangs all the way back, tucking stray strands behind his ear. Wu Fan looks at him expectantly, but words get stuck silent at the back of Yixing’s throat.

“Yixing?”

“It’s fine,” he says. The words come out faster than he expected. “That’s enough, right?”

Wu Fan laughs, beckoning him over. “So is that a 'don't like'?”

“The washroom’s small.” Yixing ducks his head, dodging the question. Wu Fan tugs him in anyway, shutting the door behind him. And the washroom _is_ small, Yixing crammed in the space between the gentle warmth from Wu Fan’s body and the sink, narrowly missing the door handle from digging into the shallow space between his ribs.

“I don’t mind,” Wu Fan says, tugging him close. Wu Fan still smells faintly of hair dye and bleach, and Yixing wrinkles his nose in reflex, before relaxing into Wu Fan’s touch. “We don’t need much space.”

Yixing wraps his arms around Wu Fan’s waist, burying his face in his shoulder, Wu Fan’s hair tickling against his ear. “Why are you still awake?” he murmurs.

“Thinking,” Wu Fan replies. He places a gentle kiss at the base of Yixing’s neck, hands on the small of Yixing’s back. Their breathing synchronizes in time, exhales matching inhales as Wu Fan’s chest rises and Yixing’s falls, conflating into a single rhythm, syncopation smoothing into an even one-two, matching counts of eight. Yixing’s eyes drift shut, bleach and hair dye mixing with the familiar scent of Wu Fan. The smell of his shampoo is strangely missing.

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” Wu Fan explains when Yixing points this out into Wu Fan’s shirt. “I’ll shower tomorrow morning.”

“I’m awake,” Yixing says, but if the lethargy impeding against his consciousness is any indication, he won’t be for much longer. As if sensing this, Wu Fan laughs softly, running a hand through Yixing’s hair, smoothing down the static of sleep.

“Go back to bed,” Wu Fan says. His fingers work a slow massage against Yixing’s scalp, and Yixing hums in contentment. His grip around Wu Fan tightens, and he turns to rest his cheek against Wu Fan’s shoulder instead, nestling into the crook of his neck. The hum of the refrigerator is faint through the walls, and silence overtakes otherwise. In the frenzy of the past few months, what time hasn’t been spent in the studio or in the recording room or at the hands of the stylist _noonas_ has been given over to tangles of arguments and disarray, tempers worn thin on lack of sleep and the fumes of hair dye and an attempt to lose those last two and a half pounds. Silence is a rare commodity spent on even rarer moments of sleep—“So why aren’t you asleep?” 

“Didn’t you just ask?” Wu Fan says, amused. “Let’s go, bed.”

“ _Ge_ ,” Yixing whines, and he knows how ridiculous he sounds right now, how much like the child he hasn’t been in years. But Wu Fan’s arms against his back are comforting and exhaustion tides him over into careless abandon. So, “come sleep with me,” he says.

“Really?” Wu Fan chuckles, and Yixing hits Wu Fan’s back in retaliation. “If you say so. But you’ll have to let go.”

Yixing reluctantly disentangles himself from Wu Fan, leaning against the sink as Wu Fan drops a kiss against Yixing’s forehead before opening the door and pushing Yixing out ahead of him. The usual drowsiness that comes at three in the morning has overtaken him entirely, and he obligingly trudges back to the bedroom. When Wu Fan asks him what happened to being thirsty, he only shakes his head—the warm hollow of his blankets is far more enticing.

Zitao turns over when the door opens, but his eyes are still shut in sleep. Yixing tugs Wu Fan down with him, but Wu Fan shakes him off, pulling the blankets up past Yixing’s shoulders. “So do you like it?” he asks, the question skimming against Yixing’s cheek. “Does it look good?”

“Yeah,” Yixing mutters. His eyes refuse to open—”stay”—he wants to say. But they have practice tomorrow morning, and hours in the dance studio ahead. “You look good,” he says instead.

He’s rewarded with a quiet laugh. “Good night, Xing-ah,” Wu Fan says.

When Yixing’s eyes flutter open for a moment, this time, the only thing that greets him is total darkness and Zitao’s snores. Sleep comes for him quickly. In the morning, Kris will call him Lay. In the morning, Yixing will no longer remember wondering just what Wu Fan had been thinking about.

In the morning, there will be light.


End file.
